


Passionate Bright Young Things

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Costume, Dancing, M/M, Sherlock in Heels, inspired by tumblr post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 08:57:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1934754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Established Johnlock in a series of David Bowie inspired drabbles</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Initially inspired by the lovely fanart of Sherlock in the Aladdin Sane makeup.

“John, this is ridiculous,” Sherlock said through the closed bedroom door. His boyfriend chuckled from his chair, rustling the paper more forcefully than was strictly necessary. John would never have thought about it before, but it made perfect sense. He was so slender, after all.

“Just remember it’s for a case, darling,” John called.

“No less…revealing, however,” Sherlock replied.

“Please, Sherlock, come on out,” John said, folding his paper and setting it aside. The detective had been in the bedroom for nearly two hours now. John had spent the past thirty minutes trying to convince Sherlock to actually open the door, and the doctor was certain it would be worth it.

“Fine, but only because I’m freezing,” Sherlock finally said.

John heard the doorknob turn, then there was a pause, and finally the door opened. John’s eyes grew as large as saucers as Sherlock emerged. John had known he’d look good. He had to, but he never thought it would be this effective. John wasn’t sure what he wanted to inspect first, but he thought it might be a good idea to start from the bottom and go up. First off, the lace-up platform heels…and that was only the beginning. Sherlock was in a skin-tight bodysuit that covered only his left leg and right arm, leaving his right leg bare to the hip, as well as almost half his chest and all of his left arm. The heels did something to Sherlock’s legs that John was pretty sure should be illegal and quietly promised himself to buy more, even though it made Sherlock’s 183 cm frame tower over him even more. The actual outfit, one could hardly call them clothes, was blue spandex with red flames bursting from the crotch. He’d forgotten that bit, and it lit a fire deep in his belly that would not be easy to extinguish. What John was most surprised about, however, was the makeup and wig. If he hadn’t known who was in that bedroom before Sherlock had emerged, he would have never guessed the person in front of him now was the famous consulting detective. Whatever Sherlock had done made his cheekbones appear even more pronounced, which was an amazing thing to see, and the ultra saturated blue eyeshadow and bright red lipstick all but erased his pallor and made his eyes look green. John still wasn’t sure how that happened. John was pretty sure that the wig was what made him look so completely different, though. It was a…John thought it might be called a mullet, all short on top with long hair at the back and sides that fell just to his shoulders. And it was bright, unnatural red.

“You’re gonna win this contest and you’re not officially entered,” John finally said.

“If I don’t freeze to death, first,” Sherlock replied, turning around and walking surprisingly confidently in those heels to the bed to pull off the duvet.

“Don’t you dare,” John said, following Sherlock into the bedroom and pulling the offending bed covering out of Sherlock’s hands.

“John, I’m _cold_ ,” Sherlock all but whined.

“Won’t be for long,” John said, his eyes raking over the taller man again. _Damn those shoes_ , John thought again as he pushed himself up on tiptoe to kiss along Sherlock’s jaw.

“John?” Sherlock seemed to be confused.

“You’re fucking hot,” John murmured as he brushed aside a stray lock of synthetic red hair and ran his tongue over Sherlock’s pulse point. He felt the detective shudder as John pulled himself closer by grabbing Sherlock’s ass.

“John, we don’t…” Sherlock began.

“Shut up,” the doctor said, “Don’t care.” John sank back down to his normal height, and placed his hands on his hips critically. Then he gave Sherlock a decisive shove, which caused the taller man to shuffle backwards a half-step and nearly fall onto the bed, catching himself so that he was half-sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Much better,” John grinned.

He pushed Sherlock’s knees apart with his own, standing between those long, glorious legs. He brushed his fingertips along Sherlock’s exposed thigh, running a finger under the edge of the outfit when he got there. There was a wicked grin on John’s face as he used his free hand to tilt Sherlock’s chin up so he could kiss him thoroughly, the red lipstick getting smeared hopelessly in the process. Neither man cared at this point, however.

“Not sure I should let you go out like this,” John said as the kiss ended. “Might not get you back.” John chuckled, knowing to the core of his soul that Sherlock was his, and his alone. He pushed Sherlock further onto the bed and straddled his hips, licking across the exposed clavicle now.

“Why…why did I have to do this again?” Sherlock stuttered as John sucked an earlobe into his mouth.

“Because your informant can’t be armed backstage. It was your idea, remember?” John said, his voice low and rough with desire. Sherlock merely nodded as John claimed his lips in another needy kiss.

*****

At some point, the wig had been tossed onto the floor after it had fallen off, and the costume had nearly been torn, much to both John and Sherlock’s chagrin. Most of the makeup Sherlock had been wearing was now smeared crazily over John’s neck and shoulders, and some lower although that was now covered with the duvet as the two men dozed comfortably, John pressed against Sherlock’s back.

“Gonna buy you more of those shoes,” John mumbled into Sherlock’s shoulder as he pulled the detective closer. Sherlock grinned and chuckled, reaching one long arm around to ruffle John’s hair.

“’S long as this is what happens when I wear them,” Sherlock murmured. He wrapped his fingers around John’s and sighed contentedly before falling asleep to the sound of his lover’s breathing.


	2. I'm Only Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has insisted Sherlock go dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by the song "John, I'm Only Dancing." This is not the story I originally plotted, but the boys ran away with it and said 'to hell with you, lady!' and so this is what I'm left with....
> 
> This is also very AU in a lot of respects. I get a lot less angst with AU drabbles, which I'm totally okay with!

Sherlock was miserable. He wasn’t certain how John had even talked him into coming in the first place, except it was one of the places Sherlock had not been yet on their ‘Idiot Night’ dates. John had imposed them a few months ago, saying it was for Sherlock’s own good to get out and at least _see_ normal people having fun.

The disco was like every nightmare Sherlock had ever had about people all coming true in one place. Too close, too loud, too…touchy. Sherlock had never appreciated being touched accidentally, and he was certain that a fair number of the ‘accidental’ bumps hadn’t been in the slightest, which was even more repellent.

Sherlock had tried to find a table near the wall, but they were all full of snogging teens and Sherlock would not endure being near _that_ unless it was absolutely necessary. The detective settled for a table near a column in the middle of the seating area and had taken the chair next to the column. At least he would only be jostled on two sides that way.

“Here, love,” John said into Sherlock’s ear as he set an open bottle of beer in front of Sherlock and took the seat next to him.

“I realize I’m here for our so-called ‘Idiot Night’ John,” Sherlock said, “But I fail to see how an environment like this is enjoyable to anyone.”

“Well, you’ve not had anything to drink yet. You might change your mind after a bottle or two.”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his husband, disbelief evident.

“Besides, we’ll get to dance. You said you enjoyed that at the reception and we’ve not had an opportunity since,” John said.

“That was with, at most, twenty people I at least had a passing acquaintance with,” Sherlock said pointedly.

“And these are complete strangers who don’t give a flying fuck,” John retorted. “Just _try_ , please.”

Sherlock tipped the bottle to his mouth and took a small sip. It wasn’t bad, really, but it was definitely _not_ the high-quality seasonal microbrew that he usually favored.

As Sherlock sat in companionable silence next to John, a woman wearing rather more makeup than clothing sat down at their table. John saw Sherlock start into his indignant bastard routine, and stopped the momentum with a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock turned to the doctor, lifting his eyebrows, puckering his lips and pointing at the offending person. John just about lost it, the expression was so hilarious.

“Down boy,” John said, “It’s not like a restaurant.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied, glaring at the woman.

“Oh, fine.” John said and pulled Sherlock close and kissed him rather more thoroughly than Sherlock was expecting. The woman blinked rapidly as the two men parted, and abruptly stood.

“That’s how you claim a table,” John said, laughing. Sherlock had to admit it was an effective technique.

After John had purchased the third round of beers and Sherlock had begun deducing some of the other people in the club to laughable effect, John thought it was probably time. He pulled Sherlock to his feet and led him to the dance floor.

“Oh, John. No.” Sherlock said as he saw where they were headed.

“Yes, idiot. ‘S what we’re here for.”

John was lucky that there was actually a couples’ song on first. He got to enjoy pulling Sherlock close for kisses as they danced together. And as Sherlock danced with John, he gradually forgot that there were any other people there; after the first few awkward moments when he was acutely aware of everyone around him, Sherlock’s focus became solely on John and everything else faded away.

 

John had been waiting for Sherlock’s eyes to finally quit glancing at everyone else and lock onto his. And then it happened. John could tell that right now, he and Sherlock were the only two people in Sherlock’s entire world. And then that famous reserve, his restraint and aloofness melted away and there, _there_ was the man John Watson had always known lay underneath.

The way Sherlock’s body could move defied explanation, but the detective brought John along for the ride, leading every move. It wasn’t any classically trained dancing that John could tell. It was just Sherlock’s natural grace finally bubbling up to the surface. John just hoped he could keep up.

John became peripherally aware that the dance floor had emptied quite a bit, or at least it seemed to. Sherlock moved with more freedom now, pulling John across the floor. The detective spun out, holding John at arm’s length then pulling him in again close, sensually close, and Sherlock’s eyes were dilated and the corner of his mouth quirked up in that way it did when he was really pleased with something. The music seemed to change to something darker, more intense. Sherlock’s dancing became less open. He pulled John in tighter, held his eyes longer. It never became anything overtly sexualized, but the passion couldn’t be missed.

Both John and Sherlock were breathless when the music finally seemed to stop. When the applause erupted across the floor, both men blushed bright crimson, John with obvious embarrassment at being watched, Sherlock with pleasure at being commended. He was always like that, complement the man and you could twist him into all kinds of pretzels. And now John realized why the dance floor had seemed so empty: it had been. Everyone had been watching the two men dance as if they would never do so again. Which might be a distinct possibility. John wasn’t one for attracting much attention to himself.

An hour later, the couple left and headed back home.

“That certainly wasn’t the way you danced at the reception,” John observed as they rode in the back of the cab, pleasantly buzzed but not drunk. John rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder, tracing the wrinkles in his trousers with his index finger.

“No,” came the annoyingly cryptic reply, accompanied with an equally cryptic smirk. Sherlock turned his head and planted a soft kiss on the top of John’s head. “No, it certainly wasn’t. Do you think we might do this again?”


	3. Spend the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have just begun dating, and Sherlock has been behaving oddly when the snogging gets hot 'n' heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Initially inspired by the first verse and chorus of "Let's Spend the Night Together" but then it went sideways...

John was becoming a bit annoyed with his flatmate-turned-boyfriend. While snogging was all well and good, he was a red-blooded man, and while he didn’t want to force Sherlock into anything he was uncomfortable with, it had gotten well and truly annoying to watch the detective pull back and retreat to his bedroom _alone_ just as things were beginning to get interesting. Every damn time. And if John would try to bring it up, talk about it in any way, Sherlock shut down. It had been this way for nearly a month.

John was going to have to try a different tactic because all the things that had worked for him in relationships before just weren’t cutting it with Sherlock. If John at least knew _why_ the detective retreated it would help. But he wouldn’t say anything. There was just this awkward look in Sherlock’s eyes as he pushed himself up off the sofa and apologized tersely then all but fled to his bedroom. John had heard the lock engage the first few times, but hadn’t wanted to listen to Sherlock locking him out anymore and had taken to turning on the telly as soon as Sherlock stood up. There had to be something John was missing; a tell, a clue, that would unlock this mystery. 

 

*****

 

John returned from a very boring day at the clinic to see Sherlock perched on his stool, gazing intently into his microscope.

“’Llo, love,” John said, hanging his coat on the stand and shuffling to the kitchen to make tea, pausing to plant a gentle kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.

“Hmm,” Sherlock replied, which is what John expected having interrupted the detective in the middle of Work.

“Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock replied as he sat back from the microscope and wrote something down in a notebook. He pulled the slide from the microscope and placed it aside. He sighed heavily and ruffled his hair in a way that John thought was absolutely adorable.

“How’s your armchair case going?” John asked, using his own shorthand for the cases Lestrade couldn’t put to bed but didn’t really require legwork on Sherlock’s part. Usually a long-shot cold case to tide the detective over until something really interesting turned up.

“Rather unfortunate that most of the witnesses for this one have died,” Sherlock said, “Or are too senile to remember their trousers let alone something that occurred nearly fifty years ago.”

“That’s an old one,” John said. He finished making his tea and took the mug to the table where he sat across from the detective. “How’d Lestrade end up with it?”

“Some other DI retired and Lestrade inherited the ‘open’ case files,” Sherlock explained. “This one was the oldest, so Lestrade has pawned it off on me in an attempt to keep me from becoming bored. Unfortunately, I have to say with the lack of any viable evidence remaining for me to inspect and the fact that the perpetrator has in all probability _died_ , I cannot fathom what Lestrade…” Sherlock stopped mid rant and his eyes lit up as he picked up his mobile and began typing furiously into it.

“What’d you figure?”

“Of course the perpetrator is dead. Obviously. But that isn’t the point. _Every_ witness was either deceased or incapacitated. Seems a rather strange occurrence. Granted they’re all in their eighties, but out of a witness pool that was over ten people, to have all surviving witnesses be senile seems terribly convenient. Organized crime convenient.”

“Brilliant,” John said, and Sherlock glanced up at the doctor and smiled. John’s eyes glowed with pride that this man, this amazing, incomprehensible, and absolutely infuriating man was his.

 

*****

 

John and Sherlock had just finished dinner. Well John had finished dinner and Sherlock had eaten more than three bites, so that counted as a win as far as John was concerned. The pair were lounging on the sofa, Sherlock propped against the armrest with John lounging comfortably between his legs, his head resting just low enough so that Sherlock could continue to use his mobile without interrupting John’s view of the football match on the telly. Sherlock’s left leg dangled off the edge of the couch and his right was bent slightly, giving John a natural hand rest. It was comfortable like this, John thought, quiet and domestic. Although he quite enjoyed running through the streets of London at all hours too.

“Ergh!” John said, as one of the players missed a scoring opportunity. John wasn’t invested in either team playing, but it was something to watch that Sherlock wouldn’t try to deduce. Football held absolutely no interest for the detective.

John felt a soothing hand sift through his hair, and the doctor had an irrational desire to pull it to his mouth for a kiss. So he did. Then he held Sherlock’s hand out for a moment, studying the long slender fingers which were much more interesting than the match on the telly. A wicked smile slid over John’s face a moment before he slid one of those fingers into his mouth. John received an audible gasp for his trouble.

“John?” Sherlock said, his voice a half-step lower than his regular register.

“Hmm,” John said and then proceeded to repeat his ‘experiment’ again. Funny how he’d never really thought of this before. It was an awful lot of fun. John heard Sherlock swallow and felt muscles tense and relax as he pulled Sherlock’s finger slowly out of his mouth. He heard a clatter on the coffee table and knew it was Sherlock’s mobile. I’ve got his full attention, now, John thought. Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around the doctor’s chest and clutched at his jumper. John smirked. It was, perhaps, a bit unconventional but pretty much everything about Sherlock was at _least_ a bitunconventional. John closed his eyes and conjured up a vision he’d had many times of Sherlock pushed up against a wall, his trousers and pants around his knees and John’s mouth on his cock. It was fairly easy to make the substitution, even if it wasn’t quite as fulfilling. Sherlock’s hand on his jumper tightened and the detective bent forward, his nose pressed into John’s hair.

“Five, three, six, four, three, six, seven,” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair. That was something John hadn’t heard before. “Two, five, nine, zero, three, six…zero…zero…o-one…” Sherlock’s breath hitched and he stammered over the last number. John had been pulled from his fantasy by the strange litany of numbers Sherlock was reciting. As the numbers stopped, Sherlock tensed and John knew what was coming next.

“John,” Sherlock said, pulling his hands away from the doctor, “I’m sorry.” Sherlock extricated himself from the sofa and fled, leaving his mobile on the coffee table. Unsurprised by Sherlock’s departure, John huffed and turned his attention back to the football match. John’s mind kept returning to Sherlock’s recital of a seemingly random string of numbers, knowing that nothing Sherlock did, however bizarre, was truly random. It was something he could at least try to ask about.

 

*****

 

“So,” John said over toast and jam the following morning, “you recite numbers when you’re turned on?”

“I need to give these files back to Lestrade today. The mob connection was spot on,” Sherlock said, not meeting John’s eyes and busying himself with putting papers into a manila folder.

“You’re not getting out of this,” John said.

“You have a shift at the clinic today,” Sherlock said needlessly. It was Wednesday. He always worked Wednesdays. Sherlock knew John’s schedule at the clinic even if he claimed that there was no space in his mind palace for such trivial matters. John knew better because Sherlock had shown up at the clinic several times during John’s shifts, exclaiming that the doctor was needed for more urgent business than octogenarian rheumatism and hadn’t texted him beforehand to ask his whereabouts. Even the great Sherlock Holmes had tells if one knew how to look for them, and John was becoming very good at reading the otherwise inscrutable detective.

“You’re dodging. You said a whole list of numbers last night and when you got to the end, it was ‘oh, sorry John, but we can’t continue’ and off you went.”

“Not when I got to the end,” Sherlock said so quietly John almost didn’t hear. Sherlock had stopped his pacing and forced business and stood, chewing on his lower lip. “I couldn’t remember what came next.”

John squinted at Sherlock, not understanding. Sherlock sniffed and squared his shoulders. “John, I feel that this line of inquiry is best pursued after your clinic shift.”

John blinked. Was this really going to happen? They were finally going to discuss it?

“I feel that you will exhaust all possible sources of information on this idiosyncrasy and I would feel more comfortable, in the end, if I could explain personally. Your clinic shift will give me time to prepare my remarks.”

John tried very hard not to let is astonishment get the better of him. Laughing at this stage would shut everything down completely.

“Yeah. Right. Good,” John said, taking a noisy sip of tea. “We’ll talk tonight then.”

 

*****

 

John walked into the flat after his shift at the clinic and found Sherlock sitting in his chair staring at John’s chair. He was sprawled out in that way that only Sherlock could ever find comfortable.

“Get those files to Lestrade, then?” John asked as he sat in his chair across from Sherlock.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, staring through John as though he wasn’t actually sitting in his own chair. Suddenly, Sherlock jumped up onto his chair, walked over the armrest over the coffee table and lay down on the sofa. He was dressed, at least, so he must have left the house of his own volition, but this looked like a classic Sherlock pout session which usually only happened when he was completely bored.

“You don’t want to explain,” John said, guessing what the root of this fit of pique was about.

“I’d rather not,” Sherlock replied.

“Fine, then I’m going to explain something to you,” John said. Sherlock turned his head and looked at John over his shoulder.

“Sherlock, I care about you more than any other human being on this planet. God knows why, I don’t understand it. But I do. I like to think you care about me too,” John paused, taking a deep breath. “Sherlock, if this is going to work, in _any_ capacity, you’re going to have to talk to me. Please.”

Without rising from the couch, Sherlock’s voice filled the flat.

“Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight. I’m sure the first three digits were sufficient to recognize the progression.”

“You recite the digits of pi when you’re horny,” John clarified, or rather didn’t because the idea made little sense.

“No,” Sherlock said, but did not elaborate. John tried another theory.

“When you want to stop being horny?” John guessed.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. “No.”

And then suddenly it dawned on John. Sherlock had said he couldn’t remember the next number… It was worth a question, anyway.

“How many digits do you know?”

“Approximately five hundred,” Sherlock replied.

“And did you get all the way ‘round to the last one last night?”

“No.”

“You think there’s something wrong when your brain short circuits when we’re together.” John smiled, relief at finally understanding making him bolder than he might normally have been. “And when you can’t remember something as ‘simple’ as the digits of pi, well. You panic.”

“I do not panic,” Sherlock retorted.

“Yes you do. There’s no other reason for you to practically run to your bedroom and lock the door.”

“I haven’t locked the door in some weeks, John,” Sherlock said.

“Well, I wouldn’t know because you didn’t mention that part and I was respecting your space. You gave very, _very_ clear ‘no’ signals.”

“You’re a very honorable man,” Sherlock said. “It’s one of your most endearing qualities.”

“Thank you,” John said, touched. It was rare for Sherlock to express his reasons for the sentiment that existed between them. John loved to compliment the detective because of the reaction he received when he did so.

“I suppose I’ve been a bit silly about it,” Sherlock admitted finally.

“Are you going to let me short your circuits, then?” John asked, quirking an eyebrow invitingly.

“Very clever, you are,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “I suppose it would be an interesting experiment.”

“Right. Come on, you. We’ll just start in your bedroom so you don’t have anywhere to escape.”

“John…” Sherlock said, and the utter uncertainty and vulnerability in his voice made John stop in his tracks.

“Look, I don’t know where the insecurity is coming from but I can respect it, okay? I don’t have to _like_ it, but I will respect your decisions. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock grinned, then, a genuine eye shining grin. He stood up from the sofa and extended his hand to John.

“John Watson, would you like to spend the night together?”

“God yes,” John said, taking the offered hand and allowing Sherlock to lead him to the bedroom.


End file.
